Where the Corpses Hang Like Fruit
by Vanguard1234523
Summary: "Verily there is nothing so hideous as the monsters, so contrary to nature, known as Witchers for they are the offspring of foul sorcery and devilry. They are rogues without virtue, conscience or scruple, true diabolic creations, fit only for killing. There is no place amidst honest men for such as they..." -Monstrum, or Description of the Witcher
1. Corpses Swaying in the Breeze

Corpses Swaying in the Breeze

Until the time of the white light and the white frost, Velen would never lack for mud or misery. In all else the land was poor, yet those never ran dry. Mud to riddle the ground with sucking mires, and misery to fill the air with an endless dirge of lamenting cries.

These swamps had always been so. A diseased sea of mud and swamp-water, peopled by half-starved nordlings scraping by on meals of speared frogs and mashed acorns, and fully starved beasts to feed on half-starved nordlings. A peasant in these regions was as likely to die from starving as he was filling the bellies of the legion drowners, fiends, and water hags who called Velen home.

A miserable, horrendous realm, but fertile soil for a Witcher plying his trade, or so Geralt had learned.

Though even Velen's most bountiful soil offered only a meager crop it seemed.

Geralt wore a scowl as he counted out the latest harvest. A pouch of fifty coins, and those for a Katakan. The most he'd earned in three jobs this last week. More and more he was coming to empathize with Gaetan, that Cat School Witcher he'd spared a few days before.

"Two hundred crowns short." Geralt groaned. "All this to book passage on a leaky tug captained by a drunken halfwit. To Skellige no less. Come on Roach, best get moving. Liquor will keep Wolverstone safely moored in the Golden Sturgeon for a while more, but it's only a matter of time before he drinks the place dry."

The mare didn't answer, unless one counted a snort of acknowledgement.

He'd been speaking to her more and more, probably a testament to the long solitude. For a few days now she'd been his only company but for the makeshift gallows and hanged men. Twenty or so swayed from the boughs of a nearby alder. The corpses were men and women, of various ages and walks of life. One wore rags and was thin as a shorn twig, whilst another was trussed in silks and filled out with the doughy pudge of nobility.

All the same now in death. Rotting meat hung from the same tree, heads hidden by the same thatched burlap, necks tied by the same twine of hemp.

"Nilfgaardians hung half the village. The Ealdorman too by the look of things." Geralt sighed. "Shit. Well here's hoping the Nilfgaardians mind their notice board, otherwise this was a lot of riding for nothing."

That was becoming a disconcertingly common occurrence. He was running dry of contracts, having scoured the Mire, Mudplough and Crookback Bog alike. But everywhere there were fewer peasants and fewer nobleman. Both meant less work for Witchers, and less coin for his purse.

These paltry contracts weren't enough. Not if he wanted to get to Skellige. To Yennefer. And maybe, just maybe to Ciri again.

"That is if our good captain doesn't drive us against the rocks, into a storm, or bust his liver before we get back." Geralt mused shaking his head. "Oughta just buy a canoe and row there. At least then the Skelligers will be too busy laughing their asses off to board me."

With a final bemused glance at the swaying bodies of hanged men, Geralt and Roach bounded in a steady canter through the densest part of the thicket, and out onto a dirt road muddy from heavy rainfall.

It snaked its way out of the deepest part of the mire, and up the summit of a small hillock atop which sprouted an old elm. It reminded Geralt dimly of the Hanged Men's Tree to the north, just a bit smaller, not so wizened or ancient. Mainly the resemblance came from the fact that like the Hanged Man's Tree it's branches bowed with corpses.

"Oh come on." Geralt snapped. "Even Emhyr can't possibly hang this many men. Have the Nilfgaardians started importing them? Is this that fabled gift of culture and law I've heard so much about? An entire forest decorated with rotting corpses? I guess the flies and necrophages do give the place some much needed character."

Geralt throttled his annoyance. Witchers weren't supposed to get annoyed after all. Stripped of emotion, calm in the face of danger and horror.

"Let's hope we find Midden as more than a smoking cinder Roach."

It had been a mistake coming here, but one forced on him by desperation. Usually Velen was a tantalizing prospect beckoning Witchers on the path. Monster abounded there, and someone needed to kill them. It wouldn't be farmers or the millers or the bakers, so it fell to the Withcers. That was the only thing they were good for after all.

Killing Monsters.

By silver or by steel and always for gold. The only trouble was stomaching the pox-ridden air and not being swallowed when the marshy ground suddenly subsided into a mire of mud and frogspawn. Or simply standing the pervasive feeling of hopelessness in the air.

No easy task.

Velen was misery cast in mud. If it wasn't monsters it was plague, if it wasn't plague it was famine, and failing those it was bandits in the wood and so on and so on.

These days it was war, and the swamp was a different world, choking under the Black Sun and the Redanian Eagle.

Dandelion had used to jest that it was anyone's guess which Velen would run out of first. Hnaged men or trees to hang them from. Only the men weren't exclusively hung anymore. To the north Radovid and his Witch Hunters had started burning them. Though Nilfgaard not wanting to be outdone, seemed fixed on supplementing Velen's flagging rate of hangings.

The men of the mire were gutted and gored, the women raped and slashed, the children if they escaped the fates of their parents were sent along the trail of treats, and it was better not to think on what fate befell them when that road finally ended in Aard Cerbin.

Geralt had changed his mind. Velen needed no character, not from Nilfgaard or anyone else. It needed enough oil to fill its mires and one well-placed match to put it out of its misery.

Judging by the rate of their hangings though, Nilfgaard might soon obviate the need for such drastic measures. Nilfgaard was second to none for hangins. They hung them by the dozens on calm days, and by scores on exciting ones. They hung so many that the boughs groaned with dismay. They hung so many it seemed Dandelion's purely rhetorical question might find an unexpected answer all too soon.

Geralt had seen only a smattering of trees still bare of Nilfgaard's grisly ornaments. So which would run out first.

The trees to hang men from? Or the men to hang from trees?

If Geralt were a praying man, he'd pray Velen ran out of trees first. If Velen ever ran out of hanged men, he'd be out of a job. There'd be no one left to hire Witchers on the path, pockets light and bellies empty.

"Something ends, something begins." Geralt repeated the prophecy, squinting his cat's eyes through the glare of dying sun as he rode up the hillock.

But what was beginning, this time of madness and contempt? And what was his place in it? Dandelion had once told him the Nilfgaardians had come to end their world. So had Eredin and his Dearg Ruadhri. And so would Tedd Deireadh when it came. A new world would be born when the sown seed burst into flames, but would there be a place for Witchers in it?

Folk these days spared nary a thought to monsters, save as a nagging nuisance. Their thoughts had turned to the war, to witches in need of burning, and maybe nonhumans too, and Witchers when all others were smoldering on the stake. The monsters hunters for hire were a dying footnote to history. The Trial of Grasses was gone, and rare was the Witcher who still invoked the Law of Surprise.

Slowly but surely, the last of their number would die away, and not slowly in their beds. A short, grisly death waited for Geralt as it did for every Witcher. They were monsters sure as the leshen and chort they hunted.

Witchers had no future. They'd only a dying present.

They'd done their task too well, culled the monsters so thoroughly they'd voided the need for their continued existence. Those thoughts had been on his mind when he'd faced Gaetan. How many of his brothers were left in the world? How many did one have to kill to wipe out the monster slayers altogether? Scores, dozens, certainly far less than a hundred and even fifty was a generous estimate these days.

So no, Geralt felt confident in saying the Witchers had no place in the future. Mayhap the Witcher in him was already dead? He'd besieged the la Valettes with Foltest, changed the fate of realms at Loc Muinne, taken a job for Emhyr var Emreis for the sake of a girl the heartless Witcher loved like a daughter.

So maybe his Witcher's spirit had been smothered long ago. Maybe as early as the forest of Brokilon, or earlier with hist last wish in Rinde. But he'd still his Cat's Eyes and sisters of silver and steel, and he had his Path laid out before him.

He'd play the part, until that Path finally found it's inevitable end.

A sudden noise jerked Geralt from his sudden bout of navel-gazing. Something midway between a squeal and a cry for help. Just over the hill or thereabouts. Too dry for Drowners, too far from the woods for leshen. Perhaps Ghouls or Endrega.

Geralt drew his silver sword at once.

 _Killing monsters for free? What sort of Witcher are you turning out to be?_

Geralt decided to leave that query to the philosophers. Let Dandelion answer it in a song. For now he'd do the thing he was made for.

He spurred Roach on and broke over the hillock's rise, to find his monsters there, writhing in the high beams of the setting sun.


	2. Son of Calanthe

The Son of Calanthe

The dwindling sun cast a flush of lurid gold on the hilltop. A man with lesser eyes would have been stung blind by the glare but Geralt could see the shapes struggling plain enough, even from a distance away.

And his ears picked up on the racket even quicker.

"Fuck!" One of the shapes called, doubling over.

"Got him! Little shit. Hold his ankles you halfwit."

"Bastard got a tooth. Ploughin' noose is too good for you, you ratty blonde fuck!" The first, rotund shape spoke, standing upright and wiping it's jaw, presumably of blood.

Geralt spotted four of them surrounding one. Shapes in various shapes of huge and husky, shirtless and tattooed or wearing matted furs and leather. All of them surrounding another shape which was small, whose crown was gilded straw, and who's voice was breaking with ever squealing plea.

"Ah come on fellas. Ain't you overreactin' just a smidge? Was only a few crowns. Didn't even manage to swipe 'em!"

"Won't be talking your way outta this brat. We know it was you swiped our haul a fortnight past. You been bleedin' us copper by copper for months. An' it's time you paid up."

The boy started to answer, but the words came out as a stifled gag. They'd gotten a rope around his neck. Before long they'd string him up and a new fruit would sprout on the tree. Then it would shrivel and die and hang black and rotting on a bowing branch.

 _Don't get involved._

Vesemir's words of wisdom passed through his mind, but once more he couldn't follow them. This was the reason he'd passed through the Trial of Grasses, the only reason he or any others of his caste existed in the first place.

Witchers killed monsters. These ones by steel.

Of course it needn't come to that right off. He trotted nearer, reaching the hill's summit, and cleared his throat just as they were readying the noose. The men all turned in surprise, hands on their blackjacks, whilst the boy simply gawked with wide eyes. By Geralt's reasoning those had more to do with the noose fastened around his throat than surprise. They went along well with his purpling face and kicking limbs.

"The fuck is this now?" The portly one with the bloodied pate spoke up. As he was the only one who wore a proper blade, Geralt reasoned he was the leader of sorts. The biggest, fattest and meanest of the lot, and odds were the only one with even a smattering of greymatter if Geralt were to guess. That was usually the way of things with this crowd.

"Funny I was about to ask the same thing. Odd to find people out this far from town so late. Something tells me you're not out here to watch the sunset."

"Oh what gave us away? Was it the steel or the hanging noose? What's it to you grey-hair? And what brings a Witcher 'round these parts to start with eh?" One of the others spoke up.

"Oh don't be thick Mors. Only one thing that brings a Witcher anywhere. Didn't your nan e'er sing you the song? Heartless cold, paid in coin o' gold an' that tripe? Well you won't find none here. Ain't exactly rolling in orens ourselves, in case the state o' our dress weren't a tipoff." The fat one said.

"Really I thought lord's men like yourself would earn a modest living."

"Lord's men." One of them spat o'er his shoulder, "Don't have no lord no more. He's that one right there you see?"

He pointed to the once corpulent body of a man, still clad in the faded and weathered tatters of one highly born. Judging by the rate of decomposition he'd been hanging there a while. The crows had been hard at work but they'd only made a small headway on his girth. Odds were he'd be feeding them a while yet.

"Only lord 'round these parts is that Nilfgaardian brat, and I'll sway from those branches 'afore I bare my bum for a black 'un."

"I see, so if it isn't on the Nilfgaardian's orders you're just taking justice into your own hands? A gaggle of righteous grave-robbers, never thought I'd see the day."

The men all exchanged wary glances and began clutching at their pockets. Some had filled them with a helping of Novigrad crowns and Temerian orens. The fat man's pouch housed a pearl necklace Geralt was willing to wager had once dangled from the neck of the plump merchant's wife who swung above them. the frayed edges of a few Gwent cards protruded from the pantaloons of the bearded bandit skulking in the back.

"Oi ain't like they're buried. Don't have graves to rob." That last one spoke up.

"I see so as enterprise's go looting corpses is above ground so long as the corpses are. An interesting theory. I wonder if the Nilfgaardians share it."

"Oi come on now. You're Rivian ain't ya? A Northerner, wouldn't really sell out your own to a black un' would ya?"

"Depends on the northerner. And on your definition of justice? Does it include hanging a fourteen year old boy for, I dunno picking your pockets, tying your shoelaces in a knot…" Geralt said.

"Don't have laces to tie. Don't have shoes neither. Dirt poor you see, so you can imagine us bein' a tad bit upset that this shite decides to steal coin we earned by the honest swat o' our brow."

"Coin you earn looting the corpses of the dead."

"Oh come down off your high fucking horse mate. What's the fouler way o' livin? Lootin' corpses like we do or makin' 'em like you do?" One of the bandits chimed in.

"Either way hanging the boy for stealing your ill-gotten gains doesn't seem a hanging offense. Couldn't you just take your coin back. Come on if not for his sake have a care for the poor tree. How much more weight do you think it can carry before it starts losing branches?" Geralt asked.

"I tend to think of it as less a burden on the tree. More a favor to the crows. Isn't much meat on this 'un sure, but they need to eat to don't they? See this is both a fine administration o' justice an' doin' our part to balance the local ecosystem." The fat one spoke up.

Geralt colored himself mildly impressed. The fat one both knew the words "administration" and "ecosystem" and could use them correctly in a sentence. He found the argument as a whole however significantly less compelling.

"Trust me the carrion birds are about the only creatures in all Velen who don't go to sleep hungry. And dress it up however you like. It's still infanticide you're plotting."

"What? This gangly fuck a young 'un. Don't make me laugh. Sure his head don't reach high off the ground, but 'ave you heard him speak. Squeaks like a field mouse with a broken paw. I'll give you this much though, not much o' a man seein' as he's not got a stray hair on that dainty white mug o' his. Tell you what, hows about we lift his trousers, see if he shouldn't be wearing a skirt instead. Killin' a man's one thing, killin' a wee lass is another.

That drew a chorus of guffaws from the other bandits, while the boy loosened his noose enough to speak. His cheeks had ripened to a ruby red with shame and fury.

"Oi I already got one tooth you swollen hog. 'Nother word an' I'll try for the whole fuckin' set."

"You'll do what?" The fat man asked, deep laughter rumbling up from his belly, "Would you get a load o' this. Balls must've dropped while we wasn't lookin'. Wasn't he pissin' his drawers just seconds ago?"

"Course that don't bode so well for you. Not one bit."

"See if you's a fella we'll have no qualms hangin' ya."

"So how's about this. We'll send you off, just so long as you leave your stones with us." The fat man said, pulling out a cleaver. "A girl 'round your age will have started bleedin' by now anyways. That alright with you grey-hair?"

Geralt rolled his eyes, his hands forming the sign of Axii.

"It's a thought but I've got a better one. You'll leave this kid here, get yourselves soused, play some cards, find a nice whore. I don't know, just get out of here."

There was a swirl of white light, and the bandits all got a misty, dazed look in their eyes as the sign took hold. Ordinarily Geralt might've had the boy give them back their gold, but they'd finally tried his patience. He'd ridden a long way south for this, through clouds of blackflies and mosquitoe. Through hordes of wolves that came on him relentless no matter how many he cleaved with his steel. Through flocks of harpies that flitted just beyond his crossbow's reach.

His tolerance for such annoyances had reached it's end. They were lucky he'd not drawn steel and had done with it.

The bandits gave a drowsy nod as one and began shambling off.

"Yeah witchyman's right. I know this place 'round about Oreton. There's this fine ginger there. Spreads her legs for you for only three coppers or thereabouts."

"I know the one. Yeah gents, let's clear out. Leave the boy lie." The fat one said in a drunken slur.

They unceremoniously deposited the boy at the base of the tree and began ambling off. As they wandered off Geralt could hear them arguing about how precisely they wanted to spend the night. Some liked the sound of a bellyful of ale with that nude ginger splayed out on them. Others like the thought of a cool glass of rye and a few rounds of cards. Odds were they'd find neither. They were marching in the vague heading of the Nilfgaardian encampment, and Nilfgaardian officers tended to take a dim view of looting.

Their ill-gotten gains would fall as overripe fruit from some tree somewhere before long.

"Bloody pig-fuckers." The boy said, from where he lay on the ground.

He made for a sorry sight. He was small and ungainly looking with fresh pubescence. His golden hair was long, wild and greasy, and his eyes flowed with tears of shame coursing along the red, puffy pathways left by earlier tricklings of fear. The same fear that had, as the bandits had said, dampened his trousers, and filled the air with the distinct bitterness of urine.

"You alright?" Geralt asked, trotting closer to the boy.

The boy stifled a few sniffles and then got on his feet, straightening out his shoulders and evening his voice with a clear of the throat.

"Aye. A few cuts an' bruises is all. An' me neck's sore as shite for obvious reasons. Still I've not asphyxiated so by my thinking I owe you a debt o' gratitude." The boy said, turning to face him.

Geralt had to give it to him, he was a good actor, putting on the semblance of dignity even with his eyes puffy from crying and his trousers sopping heavy with his own piss. One less traveled and experienced might've even found himself taken in. Unfortunately for the lad Geralt had spent too long in the company of one Julian Alfred Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove to be taken in by such blustering affectations of bravado.

No matter how well feigned.

"Now I suspect you might be hankering for a reward or somesuch. Sadly as my thievery might attest I've naught to pay you with but for my undying gratitude."

"You sure of that? By the sound of things you've come into some money recently." Geralt countered.

"Less than you might think I'm afraid. Those louts were only slightly less broke than I. 'sides which I'm afraid I can't part with that gold. Savin' it for my future prospects you see. I've no kin you see an' round these parts either you're self-sufficent or you walk the trail o' treats. So forgive me my stinginess mister…" The boy spoke.

"Geralt of Rivia."

"Right an' I'm the long lost son o' Queen Calanthe, been hidin' out in Velen e'er since the Black 'Uns took Cintra, an I'm countin' coppers so as to finance the liberation o' my ancestral homeland."

"Really?" Geralt asked wryly.

"Sure thing." The boy laughed. "Would be nice wouldn't it, bein' all cozy with Cintrian Royalty?"

Geralt privately noted the irony but decided not to comment. The boy's belief was irrelevant so long as he was in Midden before sundown. And preferably as far away from this corpse-laden hill as possible. Here the dusking sun stabbed his eyes in rays of dying gold. Here the flies hung in clouds around maggot-filled corpses. And here the air stank of death and piss.

He'd be glad of his trip to Midden, reasoning that even with a name so flattering as that it couldn't be one tenth as bad.

"Well does his majesty require an escort back to Midden? You do live there right" Geralt asked.

"No I live in a hollow out in the bogs. Better for hidin' from black 'uns, though I must suffer the company o' badgers an' toads."

"You always this much of a wiseass?" Geralt asked.

"No I'm loads worse. But seein' as I owe you a life debt I'm being polite.

Geralt half snarled in answer, beginning to wish he'd taken Vesemir's advice.

This boy was a strange one, no doubt about that. A sort of sneaky cunning lived in his eyes, the same as dwelled in the eyes of Novigrad cutpurses. His golden hair flashed in the waning sunlight, and framed a fair mug which wore the telltale smirk of someone up to no good.

"Fine does the heir of Cintra want a ride back to his manor house or would he rather walk back damp trousers and all?" Geralt asked.

The boy flushed a little, eying the damp stain that had spread across his trousers. He was standing bow-legged, far from a model of princely dignity. So he nodded his head and took Geralt's hand as he pulled him onto Roach's back.

Wiping a line of sweat from his bow, Geralt coaxed Roach back into a gallop down the muddy trail. The horse's hooves squelched in the mud and splashed through the many puddles which had formed in its grooves. It was only a short ride now to Midden, perhaps a half hour or so down the path, and the rolling grasses of the marsh's edge flew past ina blur. The boy hung on for dear life, but otherwise seemed to be enjoying himself.

"So White Wolf or no you is a Witcher ain't ya?" The boy asked.

"What gave me away? Was it the cat's eyes or the wolf's head medallion?" Geralt asked.

"Heh, now who's bein' the wiseass." The boy quipped back. "Anyways it's funny to see one o' your guild stop by in Midden. Only ever had one o' you lot through before. This one wore a cat I think, five or so years back. Killed the griffin that made off with old man Rekke an' three o' his steers. Nasty business that. Luckily we don't seem to get many monsters round these parts. Not since old lady Glenmore took up roost a few years back. Monsters 'round here have been right tame ever since."

Geralt watched and listened with some slight curiosity. It seemed the terror and fear of the boy's near hanging had loosened tongue as well as bladder. The words wouldn't stop flowing, one after another it was downright mesmerizing the giddy energy he could sneak int every word. An oddity certainly, every bit of him. He'd done away with the hat customary on young boys in the northern realms, letting the golden tangle of his hair spill free in the wind.

"You know you'll lose your ears to the frost come winter." Geralt pointed out.

"My hair's plenty long to compensate. 'Sides which that hat makes me look like a proper dunce."

"Most boys your age wear one." Geralt countered.

"Well then most boys my age look like proper dunces don't they?"

Geralt paused, he did have something of a point. The hats had a way of spoiling the dignity of those unlucky enough to wear them. And by the ratty state of his clothes and soot-smeared face this boy had little of that left to lose.

"In any case not all boys my age wear 'em. I'm fourteen as o' last spring. Plenty old enough to wear the hat iffin' it takes my fancy."

"True enough." Geralt answered. "You got a name."

"Can't imagine I'd 'ave worked my way through fourteen years o' living without one. It's Nils, why you interested?"

"How else am I gonna make sure you pay me back, sire?" Geralt asked.

"Aww, an' here I was thinkin' you was content with the gift o' my friendship."

Geralt glared.

"Funny I didn't think you were interested in being friends Nils."

"An' what gave you that impress-Agh!" Nils gasped in pain as Geralt took firm hold of his wrist and twisted it, pulling it away from his coin purse.

"Generally speaking friends don't rob one another. Unless Midden has a very different notion of friendship than I'm used to."

"Ehehehe" Nils laughed nervously, "Come on sir, was only goin' to nick a few crowns, no more'n five or so. Enough to live on for a span or so. I'm in the wrong clear as day, but do take mercy on a poor wretch o' my-Waaagh!"

Geralt roughly tossed the boy from the saddle and he splashed into a rather deep and muddy puddle, looking up at Geralt with wounded, nervous eyes of blue frost.

"Alright can see you're upset."

"Let's see you've robbed bandits and Witchers. Were you planning to try your luck with the Nilfgaardians next? You might end up back on the tree, and I'm not so sure I'll save you next time."

"Well my situation's a little like yours. My only trade's high risk 'an low reward, but it puts bread on the table, however moldy it might be. Sometimes I do things I ain't proud of but-." Nils started.

"Things like picking the pockets of the man who saved your life?" Geralt asked disdainfully, "You can find the way back to Midden yourself majesty. I'd hurry if I were you, it'll be nightfall soon and the wolves will scent a rat like you leagues away."

"W-Wait." Nils said getting to his feet, shaking, "Look I know I messed up but I swear I'm sorry I won't do it a-."

"Come on Roach."

With that Geralt cracked the reins and Roach exploded into a full gallop, pelting the fallen thief with thick clods of mud as the Witcher rode away. He took a final glance to see the boy struggling upright, caked head to toe in muck as he wiped away his flowing tears with muddied hands.

His thoughts towards him were a welter of lingering anger and cloying pity. Velen was after all the land of mud and misery. He could hardly blame the boy for doing what it took to survive the watery mires of No Man's Land. And in the grand scheme of things what he did wasn't so awful. He didn't send his own children or wandering orphans to the Crone's stewpots, nor did he hang children for picking pockets.

But if this was how he treated those who helped him before long he'd find himself in an iron cell or far worse. Best he learn his lesson now, by slinking bow legged into midden, trousers heavy and wet with piss, body caked in mud, face streaming with salty tears of shame. It would remind him not to do this again, as the next generous fool he crossed might not be so forgiving.

 _A forgiving Witcher. What's this world coming to?_

It wasn't coming to anything, it was ending, changing into something new. The old one was dying away piece by piece, and soon there would be nothing left of the way things were.

This new world be it made by the King of the Wildhunt, the Emperor of Nilfgaard, or the Swallow's last flight, it seemed it had no place for Witchers. Their bloody trade was dying out and so were they.

A Witcher should have watched that boy choke to death, because he wouldn't be paid for saving him. Because as Geralt knew even some dullard with a pitchfork could fell a mighty Witcher if they'd enough dumb luck, and needlessly testing the ire of four grown men was an unnecessary risk. The boy's mother wouldn't have enough crowns to justify his risk, nor be willing to part with them if she did.

But he'd done it anyway, because his icy heart was starting to thaw or had done so long ago. Because more and more the monsters he killed wore helms and armor, and fought under the banner of kings. Because the time of the white light and white frost was nigh, and the time of Witchers was slowly marching to an end.

But it wasn't here yet. Velen would have its miseries in the new world. Geralt was sure. War would give way to something else just as awful and peasants and lords would wail piteously about their lot in life. But for now there was the war, there was the starving, and there were the monsters lurking in the woods and bog.

And though the world would pass him by before long, he was a Witcher still.

And there was only one thing a Witcher was good for.

Cracking the reins again, Geralt put all thoughts of the golden haired thief from his head as Midden's profile came into view.

He still had his bloody trade to ply, for whatever meager coin Velens' coppers could offer up.

And he would, just so long as the folk of Velen never ran shy of men to hang from trees.


	3. With a Name Like Midden

With a Name Like Midden…

Geralt wasn't entirely sure what to expect of the secluded hamlet they called Midden. The Path had never brought him this way before, so he knew the town only as a tiny dot marked on a handful of maps. It was tucked well within Nilfgaard held territories, so Geralt reasoned any wounds left by the war would've scabbed over.

If so that meant he was finding Midden on a good day.

A sobering thought.

The village could be seen miles off by the billows of hearth smoke. They rose in curls white as curdling milk and about as pleasant to behold. They filled the skies in a bleary smog, rising from crooked black-grey smokestacks, fed by damp lumber.

They hung over a town of wooden hutches piled together from rough, aged lumber, most of it driftwood. The town was more repurposed flotsam and jetsam than quality board carpentry, and it showed. A stiff wind or a sudden squall looked right to bowl the whole place over.

Half of the town already was, as Geralt lead Roach along the main road, he found half the homes in ruined, their collapsed frames reduced to blackened charcoal sodden from heavy rainfall. Nilfgaard had left it's mark, sweeping north.

Geralt could see that in the shambles of the village proper, and on the ashen looks the local color wore. Their faces were black with pitch, eyes heavy from sobbing and lack of rest. They hunkered down as he passed, watching him like rabbits would watch a hunter from the brush. Husbands shooed their wives and gave him hard looks. While children ceased their play and scampered back to the arms of their mothers.

A witcher's usual reception, just a shade grimmer and dourer.

Perhaps exactly what you'd expect from someplace named after a garbage heap.

Names could tell you a lot of things about places. And a name like Midden told you nothing good.

Geralt's keen nose caught all manner of scents in the air. There was an odor of wet wood and muddy earth as you might expect, and the always pleasant reek of unwashed peasant. But fouler smells cloyed in the air. Buckthorn from the deep brooks just east mingled with the smells of town. Smells of rotting meat and starving cattle and goats with fecal-flecked hides left to slowly die in their own waste. The smell of discarded and half-eaten meals of pike and roach, with a few hints of squirrel. There was a scent too of blood and ashes, of sweat and salt.

A stench of misery and sin and waste.

Put plainly Midden stank like the refuse it was named for, and being a Witcher Geralt could smell every subtle nuance of its foulness.

There was a downside to his mutations, he supposed.

"Who's he then?" A young voice spoke off to his right.

"Don't be daft 'Arry. A witcher isn't he. See 'is eyes?" Spoke another.

"A Witcher. So he's here about Ol' Meddcar then?"

"Sure 'ope so. Miss huntin' frogs in the forest streams. Mum won't let me play there 'til he's gone. Says it ain't safe with all the folk gone missin'."

 _Monster in the Woods it sounds like. Leshen? Fiend? It's work at least. Just hope it pays well._

Geralt brushed on by, casting a second glance along the mud-strewn streets, stopped every now and again by a half-drunk peasant or a wandering hog. Somehow he doubted the villagers had enough coin between them to post a half-decent reward.

His only hopes thus lay in the Nilfgaardian garrison he'd heard lay just on the outskirts, at the feet of an old manse. He brushed on through the streets and found the notice board about where he expected to, on a wind in the road on the doorstep of a dingy inn that reeked of stale bread and watery vodka.

The Midden-folk had filled it with the usual drivel of peasantry. My bitch just whelped and her pups go for five crowns a head. Will pay for help fixing my roof, stripped by the storm-winds. One posted by a blacksmith, Dwarven if Geralt were to wager a guess, warned that any caught ogling his freshly flowered lassie would earn himself a swift, hard, forge-hammer to his family stones.

One hastily scrawled note demanded the prompt return of one Haskill's prized hoe, an heirloom from his father. It was answered by one saying Haskill would have his hoe back, just as soon as he apologized for "accidentally" cuckolding him last Belletyn.

Most of these were written on cheap paper and scrawled in charcoal ink. Only the one stamped dead center, sealed with a Nilfgaardian Sun looked promising.

Geralt plucked it off the notice board and read.

 _By Order of the Emperor,_

 _A Witcher is wanted to slay the creature the local Nordlings have dubbed Old Meddcar. Regrettably the local peasantry has yet to provide any useful information such as its taxonomy or rough physical description. Suffice it to say that it is large, has developed a certain fondness for human flesh, and he who fells it will be duly compensated with a sum of 300 Novigrad Crowns. Price is non-negotiable. Any hagglers will be flogged then shown the door. Inquire further at the Glenmore Estate on the village outskirts. Reward will be granted upon proof of the beast's death._

 _Signed Commandant Murvadd van Moorig,, 3_ _rd_ _Nilfgaardian Army_

 _Addendum: The next clever fellow who brings me the severed head of some warg will lose his own for wasting my time. You could ask the miller about the seriousness of my threat, if not for the recent and not unrelated loss of his tongue._

 _Addendum II: For the last time. This Contract is for Witchers, not addle-pated bumpkins with delusions of monster-slaying. But if you insist on throwing yourself at it anyway, go on, I'll lift not a finger to stop you. If by some act of divine intercession you succeed your reward will be the promised sum of 300 crowns, and my considerable shock. If you fail, the more likely outcome, well try to at least take the edge off its appetite. A bellyful of peasant will keep the beast drowsy, content, and thus ill-inclined to sup on someone who matters._

 _Addendum III: An Addendum is an item of additional material attached to a written document such as the one you are currently reading you Nordling halfwit. By the Great Sun. The next person who consults me instead of a dictionary on the matter will be flogged. Number of lashes depend on the color of my mood._

"Charming fellow." Geralt said, pocketing the notice. "Now to find the Glenmore Estate."

"Just up the road she is. About ten mintues' riding if your mare is swift. And judging by how quickly she left me in the mud, she's that an' more."

Geralt turned to find Nils behind him, panting with an earnest though somewhat frightened smile on his face.

"So are you. Didn't think you'd be back in town so quick." Geralt said, shifting and putting a hand on his coin purse.

"Ah well in my line o' work you either build strong legs for sprintin' or…" Nils started, "Or well that mess you just saw back there has a way o' happenin'."

"Yeah I imagine you don't win a lot of friends doing what you do."

"None as it turns out. Though that's as much to do with my not bein' from around 'ere as it does my trade." Nils spoke in answer. "Don't go lookin' for a warm welcome. Folk here are all related five or six generations back, an' won't give you the time o' day unless you can provide 'em with an adequate accountin' o your heritage."

"I'm a Witcher. I'm used to that."

"Well we've common ground in that at least. You know you've been awful kind to me. Most folk don't let me off with naught but a scoldin'. Usually it's a bared length o' steel or some nanny's walking stick iffin' I'm fortunate."

"Is this conversation going anywhere?"

"Uh yes it is in point o' fact. See I can't help but to think we got off on the wrong foot back there."

"You mean when you tried to steal from me."

"Yes that bit right there. Can't help but feel it's driven a wedge straight through what could otherwise have been a beautiful friendship."

"Get to the point."

"Well, I was goin' to offer my sincerest apologies an' beg you to find it in your doubtless massive an' assuredly merciful heart to let bygones be bygones." Nils started.

"I said get to the point. You're prattling on." Geralt said, pulling himself into Roach's saddle.

"Sorry occupational quirk. See if you get folk distracted-." Nils started.

"They're less likely to notice you digging around in their pockets." Geralt answered. "I know. You just tried that out on me, remember?"

"Right…" Nils sighed, letting the smile slough off his face. "Look I was just wonderin' if you wouldn't mind lettin' Rosa, the pretty girl up at the Glenmore estate, know that I'm alright. I missed our meetin' time an' she'll be worried sick o'er me I know it. Ol' Meddcar's acquired a fondness for lads around my age group whilst he was sleepin'. I don't want her thinkin' it nabbed me all night. She won't sleep a wink."

Geralt blinked in honest surprise. Of all the favors Geralt imagined him asking, this wasn't one of them. True he was of around that age, and pubescent stirrings of romance knew no boundaries of class or status, but why a pampered lord's daughter would embark on a tryst with a lowborn thief was beyond him.

Of course Geralt's interests were stoked by another matter. Work-related.

"By the sound of things Midden's got a history with this monster." Geralt asked.

"Could say the two are one in the same I 'spose. Or at the very least they're closely twined." Nils answered. "Meddcar's been a scary story mothers threaten their young 'uns with for o'er a century now, or so folk tell it. None can recall exactly where it all got started 'course, but the basic yarn's pretty straightforward. Now do you know why our humble little township goes by Midden?"

Geralt frowned sniffing the air.

"Have something to do with the stench?"

"Does actually. Y'see originally the Glenmore estate was all there was on this spit o' land. There was this one lord, loved feasts an shite but always had a bloody hard time cleanin' up after 'em. There'd be legs o' mostly eaten venison and fish bones left after every servin', an' he couldn't' find a place to put it all. Eventually he started just dumpin' it in a great trash heap. Only that attracts drowners an' ghouls 'an the like so he needed folk to manage it. Some workers start stayin' 'round full time. Build houses. Some find out that the local brooks are nasty with fish, good tastin' ones too. Some others find out there's plenty o' herbs in the local wood. So they both stay on an' then one o' 'em gets the idea to build an inn. An' before you know it, you've got Midden, our own little slice o' this watery hell called Velen."

"Charming story. Where does the monster figure in?"

"Well came a time some o' the lord's trash minders got a bit lax in their duties, let the trash pile up too high. Only this time it weren't ghouls or nothin' that came. This thing were big, and though the scent o' death drew it, was keen on livin' meat. Our meat. Started out with sheep an' hounds caught out too late. Then it eats a hunter in the woods, then the town drunk and on and on it goes. Reckon there were about a dozen dead 'afore it sodded off the first time." Nils answered. "The name it got on account o' its favored dish. See it got a hankerin' for soused up blood after eatin' the drunk, an' thereafter it would nab any 'an all o' his like it could. So we called it Meddcar, the Mead Lover in the elder tongue."

"A bit of a botched translation."

"Well what'd you expect? We ain't exactly in Oxenfurt, not many 'round here who can speak the elfy-tongue worth a damn. Fuck, out here you're lucky to find one in ten who can write their own name in the common one."

"Don't sound too fond of the place." Geralt asked.

"Would you be? I can see that look in your eyes. You hate this place an' you just got here. I have to live here year 'round. Its sweat and blackflies come summer and bitter cold come winter. Wears thin awful fast." Nils answered.

"So why stay?" Geralt asked.

"Don't 'ave a horse do I?" Nils asked with a shrug, "How far do you reckon a scrawny cutpurse like meself makes it on foot in Crookback bog?"

"Not very." Geralt admitted.

"Exactly, more or less stuck here. Travellin's the province of men with steel or coin to pave or pay their way respectively. Well steel an' silver in your case."

"And you think fleecing bandits and dirt poor peasants is going to help you pay your way? Reasonable I suppose at least until you're on the road. You know what it's like out there. On the roads you'll be met with patrols of Nilfgaardians, Redanian skirmishers, deserters from both sides, any of who will gladly lighten your pockets and feed you a length of steel. Off the roads you'll deal with necrophages, wraiths, the odd earth elemental or chort. If you're lucky they'll kill you so fast you won't realize what's happened, if you're not, well there are worse ways to go than being devoured by drowners but not many." Geralt cut in, "If I were you I'd straighten out. Learn a trade, sweep chimneys, I dunno take up a lute and learn a few songs. Leaving carries a whole lot of risk just to wind up in a slightly cleaner shit-hole."

"Don't need to tell me twice. Roads were bad enough on my way here. No chance am I bravin' 'em now that all Temeria's gone to shite. Won't get as far as the roads. Meddcar'll nab me up right quick. Seems whatever it is, it's acquired a taste for young 'uns what stray too near the forest since its untimely resurrection. Nah the gold's for summat else, a worthy cause I assure you." Nils said, frowning, "Say you can straighten out this bugger quick right. Whatever he is?"

"That depends." Geralt asked.

"On what?"

"On how soon we get back on track. As much fun as it is shooting the breeze I do have places to be before sunset." Geralt asked, casting an eye towards the sun.

The last light of day was dwindling, reddening to blood ruby instead of honey gold. Another day lost, another day on this side of the sea, whilst Yennefer waited on the other. Another day the Swallow was on the wing, moving here and there, with the Wolf stuck grasping at straws, sniffing for a hint of her in the air.

He'd wasted enough of his time on urchins and cutthroats.

"Alright alright no need to be fussy. I don't know much about it mind you, been keepin' clear o' all but the fringes o' the forest as you might expect. Don't fancy some nastiness breaking its fast on me. What I do know is that it's big and reeks o' a powerful musk, something a little ursine or buckish smellin'. Only stronger, hits you proper like a punch to the gob. An' when I say huge I do mean huge. Saw the wake o' it's passin' on the outskirts. Was barrelin' trees aside left an' right, bendin' 'em so far their roots could scarce keep 'em moored. Nearly tore this ol' Cedar I used to play in right outta the dirt, and it snapped younger trees like they were twigs. Let's see what else is there? Its footsteps were cloven if the tracks are anythin' to go on. That help you any?"

"Sounds like a relict. Size points to a fiend, but predatory behavior's more reminiscent of a Chort or a bumbakvetch." Geralt mused.

The locale certainly fit. Large relicts of the like of fiends, chorts, and bumbakvetches prospered in swathes of marshy forest. Accordingly the forests of Velen, which put down roots in swathes of boggy soil and deep pools fed by the Yaruga, was an ideal habitus. And in particular the Crones' presence seemed to indicate that relicts of all sort found the swamp to their liking.

A chort was the likeliest suspect. They were smaller, more aggressive, not the recluses that their larger fiend and bumbakvetch cousins were. They were more likely to take humans as prey as well. The only sticking point was the size. Chorts were more aggressive in part because their smaller size and faster metabolisms demanded it. Perhaps the locals were exaggerating it's size but if they weren't…

Fiends roused to anger were worse ten times over than their smaller cousins.

"Pieced that together quick." Nils whistled, "Seems you know your craft."

"Wouldn't be much of a Witcher if I didn't."

"Well no you just wouldn't be a very good one. There's shite carpenters an' shite blacksmiths but they are still blacksmiths. You gotta reckon there are more'n a few shite Witchers out in the world."

"No there aren't. Witchers who weren't up to snuff rarely made it past a contract or two. You shoe a horse wrong, or strip too much wood of a board, you can always do better next time. If you forget to cast Yrden when facing a noonwraith you'd be torn to pieces in moments. If you forget to down a swig of black blood against a Fleder or Ekkimara, you'll die of exsanguination or just get dismembered. Only the Witchers worth their salt are still around these days. My line of work doesn't have much of a margin for error, even the simplest mistakes could mean your life."

"Once more, sounds like my trade. A pickpocket who's no good has a way o' losin' fingers. An' a pickpocket who loses fingers can't pick pockets so good no more. It's a rough life 'an you get by on whatever meager pickings you can." Nils said, with an all too innocent smile. "Speakin' o' meager pickin's. Don't suppose you'd be of a mind to lend a fellow destitute workin' man a modest advisory fee."

"Really and here I was thinking you'd be content with the gift of my friendship. Too bad, you just had to get greedy. Come on R-." Geralt started.

"Hang on, no more jokes. I get it, I'm a little shite. Believe me you're not the first to drum up that impression o' me an' you've got more cause'n most do. All the same though, you will pass that message on to Rosa for me won't ya? For 'er sake if not mine." Nils spoke.

Geralt groaned, the words dying in his throat.

"Fine I'll let her know. In exchange you've gotta promise me you'll-."

"I know, I know, Law o' Surprise an' all. What I find at home but do not expect. It's gonna be a mushroom, a rat, or an oddly shaped rock just so you know. Home's a bit lackin' in décor an' occupants."

"…quit being a complete dumbass. The way you pick marks pretty soon you'll be trying to sweet talk trolls. And no getting them arguing about how to cook you doesn't work. The first crest of dawn won't turn them to stone and most already have exhaustive recipes." The Witcher finished.

"Ah come on you really think I'm thick enough to try an' swipe from a Rock Troll, d'you?"

"Yes."

"…Didn't have to be that blunt did you?" Nils said, face falling.

"No. I didn't."

"…still sore 'bout me tryin' to nick your coin purse ain't ya?"

"Could be." Geralt said, cracking the reins.

As before, Roach burst into a full gallop from a near standstill. As before she'd been standing square in a muddy pool which had gathered on before. As before, she thundered off, clods of muck and filthy water went flying, and one unwashed peasant let out an undignified squawk of dismay.

"Ah come on!" Nils squealed after him, "I ain't even dried yet."

Geralt almost smirked as he rode off, the last light of day had gone bloody, the color of some deep flask of Toussaint red. The stars were out, glittering against a purpling sky. Yet he could see the outline of the Glenmore estate fine, perched on a rocky promontory on the edge of a winding road, fanned on all sides by alders and oaks.

He rode out and his thoughts turned. Away from the boy by now slouching home in search of a good night's rest and a change of clothes, and towards the swamp-forest that sprawled off to his right.

Wispy branches cracking in the wind, grasping and gnarled with age. It was ancient, sylvan and overgrown. The woodsmen could try to hew and hack their way through, but the woods had grown too wild for too long, and wouldn't go without a fight. A perfect haven for an ancient relict.

 _Behavioral characteristics of a Chort, physical characteristics of a Fiend._ Geralt thought to himself.

A hard job. Not an impossible one, not one a seasoned Witcher would balk at, but a hard one all the same. But the coin was there, that was all that matters.

Sooner or later, as all thoughts did these days, Geralt's mind wandered from peasant thieves and sylvan forests, to thoughts of Swallows. Swallows on the wing, hounded by a hunt of riders, galloping through the heavens.

He tightened the reins and dug in his stirrups.

He'd wasted time enough as it was.


End file.
